White Noise
by poppets
Summary: Childhood fears are hard to shake, no matter how much you tell yourself you've outgrown them. [Tags: Panic Attacks, Colour Theory, Past Character Death, Fear, Childhood Memories, Friendship, Emotional Baggage, Comfort, Pre-Relationship]


Notes: I was thinking recently about the impact of colours in our lives. People have favourite colours or colours that they hate. Colours that make them feel happy or sad. Colours that are tied to memory. I'm hoping to turn this into a series of one-shots; each story based on a different colour. First up: White.

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White Noise

* * *

The colour black had never reminded Stiles of death. That dubious honour fell to white. White flowers; white sheets; white lies; pallid white skin.

In the weeks following his mother's death he'd banned white flowers from the house and from the garden. Filling their place with everything vibrant and colourful and alive.

* * *

Stiles swung open the door of his jeep and hopped out. This long-arse day was finally fucking over and he was looking forward to vegging on the couch, marathoning Marvel movies, and exalting in the lack of werewolf related emergencies.

Lost in internal debate on the pros and cons of pizza vs burgers for dinner, Stiles didn't see the bouquet sitting on the doorstep until he was almost on top of it. White flowers and green leaves. A mass of them, deceptive in their innocence, arranged so artfully and wrapped in soft ribbon.

Stiles stumbled backward as though he'd been punched in the gut.

' _No no no no no no no_ ' was running an endless loop through his brain. His breath sawed between his lips; desperate, gasping inhales as his chest tightened and his heart raced.

There was a card perched amongst the blooms. Stiles reached forward to tug it free, freezing when the delicate petals of a flower ghosted over the skin of his wrist. A coldness sliced through his gut as though he'd been stabbed with a shard of ice. He wretched, his back bowed as he dry heaved. The card slipped from his fingers to the ground.

Stiles staggered down the steps to the relative safety of the lawn. He folded in on himself, crouching low as he struggled to draw in oxygen.

His Dad must be dead. That was the only reason there'd be white flowers on the doorstep. His father had been killed. He'd been shot, or stabbed, or torn apart by a supernatural being. And that would be Stiles' fault. His fault for bringing him into the supernatural world, exposing him to even more danger. He should have kept him in the dark, kept this secret and kept him safe.

He struggled to dig his phone out of his pocket, the adrenalin causing his hands to spasm. His finger hovered over the entry labelled ' _Dad_ ' but he couldn't bring himself to make the call. If his Dad didn't answer it would all be real, it would confirm the thoughts his mind was tormenting him with. He couldn't do it.

He pressed his finger against another name then let the phone drop to the grass.

His Dad couldn't be dead. Stiles wouldn't cope. He'd be on his own, completely. No one who understood him, no one to hug, no one to lecture and worry about.

He struggled to breathe as pain stabbed through his chest, clutching jagged tendrils around his heart. He felt lightheaded and knew he was hyperventilating. He fought against the awful thoughts his mind supplied; railed against them, refuted them, but they multiplied endlessly until there seemed to be too many and they pushed against his temples, pushed against the back of his eyes, sending shockwaves of pain through his skull as they attempted to break free.

He tried his usual strategies. He tried to count the blades of grass in front of him, but they danced and swayed before his eyes and refused to stay still. He tried to slow his breaths, focusing on the gasping inhale and the shuddering exhale, but the erratic pounding of his heart threw off his focus. He tried to focus on relaxing his muscles, worked to unlock his fingers one by one, but they'd gone rigid and refused to cooperate.

As his vision swam in and out of focus he felt relief that unconsciousness, at least, was fast approaching. Then the pain would stop. Then the thoughts would stop.

"Stiles!" The shout reached his ears distorted, as though yelled underwater. _He knew that voice, he knew that voice_. He latched onto the sound, desperate for an anchor in the swirling storm.

A shadow passed his eyes as Derek crouched before him. His scowling face swam into focus and Stiles felt a moment of relief.

"Stiles, what's wrong? What's happened?" A low growl rumbled through the air. "You've got to tell me how to help."

"Flowers," he managed to gasp out, tilting his head towards the house. "Dad."

Derek's frown deepened, but he stood and pulled his phone from his pocket. His call hurried and anxious.

Stiles felt an eternity pass before Derek's face reappeared in view, inches from his own.

"Ok, Stiles. Everything is going to be ok. Your Dad is fine. He's on his way home right now."

Later Stiles might be embarrassed that Derek heard the sob that broke free, but in this moment he was too relieved to care.

"But what I need you to do now is focus on calming your breathing." Derek took hold of one of Stiles' hands and carefully prised the fingers open. He pressed Stiles' palm flat to his chest, anchoring his hand in place with his own, and spoke softly. "Breathe with me, Stiles. Concentrate on your hand as it rises and falls in time with my breaths. Try to match your breathing with mine. In and out nice and slowly. That's it. Just keeping breathing slow and steady."

For long minutes Derek continued the gentle rhythm of his words, slowing them to match the pace of his breaths. Stiles could feel his breathing slow to normal, and the ache in his chest ease. His muscles slowly unknotted as he kept his gaze affixed on the gentle rise and fall of his hand against Derek's chest.

"Is he really ok?" Stiles whispered.

Derek nodded slowly. "Yes, he's fine."

"But the flowers…"

"Are just flowers, Stiles." Derek's calm tone cut across Stiles' words. "Nothing bad has happened and everyone is ok."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

Stiles allowed his eyes to slide shut and dropped his forehead to Derek's shoulder. A shudder of relief coursed through him as Derek wrapped an arm around his back and stroked gentle fingers over the nape of his neck.

The Sheriff found them like that, crouched still and quiet together on the lawn.

Fragile but whole again.

End.

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Notes

Thanks for reading! This was my first foray into the Teen Wolf fandom, so please be gentle with me. Comments and thoughts always appreciated.


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